I spent another night listening to you talk about suicide in the present tense.
Your nostalgia shook the phone cord in my hands and even the touch tones knew just how much you miss him and the degree to which I fail miserably in comparison
(and you waste no time confirming- make damn sure I understand that, yeah.)
I tried to save you months ago, attempted to lubricate the nails tearing at the pulpy flotsam that may have been your heart, once.
But these days I don't do in-love-with-you, because I'm simply not a masochist.
To that extent, at least. One-sided love affairs are as cold as the other side of the bed.
With your trembling voice and pleas for me to just let you go, I realize I can't talk you down or unload your gun.
You recited pieces of your will, final wishes you wanted me to be sure were carried out.
Well, isn't that darling, trying to blur the line between whipping boy and maid.
The service didn't send me, and I don't do windows.